Jacked (53 page)

Sherry clutched at her heart. “I want to give Officer Hottie a hug for giving us our Erin back.”

I studied her face. “Officer Hottie?”

She wasn’t the least bit remorseful. “I’m serious. You’d better warn him that I’m gonna hug the shit out of him the next time I see him. I don’t want him to accidentally shoot me or something. That would suck.”

“He won’t shoot you,” Jen chided. “Just don’t call him that to his face or he just might.”

Sherry surrendered. “Hey, I didn’t make up the name. That’s what they call him on Facebook.” She took a drink of her water. “I can’t believe he’s got like forty-seven thousand fans on there. It’s crazy.”

Forty thousand what???

“I wonder how many likes that other hot cop from San Francisco has,” Sherry mused, painting one of her French fries with mustard. “I saw a post on him yesterday. He’s cute, too.”

My gut sank. Her use of condiments wasn’t helping. “Are you serious?”

Sherry nodded. “I thought you knew that. You’ve been dating him for weeks and you haven’t cyber-stalked him yet?”

Dread was pounding my nervous system. “No. I barely have time to study and sleep—”

“And have sex,” Sherry added.

I smiled at her while chewing the last bit of granola topping. “And have sex. No, I haven’t stalked him—at all.”

Jen eyed me over. “Nothing? No Internet searches or anything?”

Their expectations were ridiculous. “No. Why? Is that what all the crazy women are doing these days?”

“Not crazy women, well-informed women.” Jen pointed a baby carrot at me. “Knowledge is empowerment. You know that. I thought you’d at least be curious about the television star you’re dating. See what you’re getting into.”

Now I was worried. “Why? What am I getting into?”

Jen shrugged. “Beyond him being a local celebrity? I don’t know. You should see some of the comments they make on his fan page. I know you don’t do social media much but some of the stuff they say, well it’s sort of scary. I guess that means you’ve never watched his television show either. Did he show you any clips yet?”

“No.” I opened my bottle of mineral water and took a sip. “It’s not a subject he likes to discuss. Ever.”

Jen finished chewing. “Well, you can always watch a few of them on YouTube. There are about twenty of them, right Sherry?”

It bothered me that they knew more about the guy I was dating than I did. “You two watched them?”

Sherry shrugged it off and decorated another French fry.

“Without me?” I added.

“We thought you might be uncomfortable or something so…,” Jen said. “I’m sorry. We should have asked.”

Sherry reached for her pocket, retrieving her cell phone. “You want to watch one now?”

My head was swimming.
Did I?
“Not right now.”

“Maybe some other time then,” Jen said. “Does he know he’s all over Facebook?”

Images of my last patient—that little boy—unconscious, battered and bruised from head to toe, was dominating, drowning everything else out. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Is this bothering you? Maybe we shouldn’t talk about it. We’ll change the subject,” Jen said. “Let’s change the subject.”

Sarah waddled in through the doorway. The second our eyes connected, heavy-hearted sympathy flowed between us.

“Hey,” she said to the table. “Oh Erin.” She hugged me. “That was awful. Are you okay?”

I rubbed the forearm she had across my chest. “Yeah.”

“What’s going on?” Jen asked, scanning us for answers.

Sarah released me; the added weight of her pregnant belly giving her some discomfort as she straightened. “We just had a ped trauma. Horrible, horrible abuse case. Poor baby. Made me sick to think of it.”

“Abuse?” Sherry questioned. “Is that what was going on? I had heard something but I wasn’t sure. I can’t believe they cut back on overnight pediatric trauma coverage. As if we don’t have enough to do.”

“He was my patient,” I muttered, wishing we would never see cases like that ever again. “Makes you lose faith in humanity.” I studied Sarah’s jutting stomach. “Just confirms why I never want kids.”

A collective “What?” rose from the table.

Sherry stared at me in utter disbelief. “You don’t want kids?”

Sarah appeared wounded. “Why is this the first time I’m hearing this?”

I was beginning to worry I’d sprouted a second head or something. “After seeing the condition that little boy was in, it just proves that… never mind.” I held my tongue, knowing I was sitting at a table with three fierce mothers, all of who were ready to pounce.

I held up a hand. “Before you all start on me, it’s a personal choice. Some women want them. I don’t. I just don’t think motherhood is for me, that’s all.” I scanned their faces, knowing they would fight me tooth and nail on my declaration but none of them,
none of them
knew the horrors I’d seen or the blackest depths a woman’s soul could reach when under such pressure. No, my decisions were final and that was that.

Within a nanosecond, all three of them started to argue their points. “Listen, it’s my choice. I don’t want children.”

“Does Adam know this?” Jen asked.

I shook my head, wanting to find a safe place to hide. Memories of being alone, of being terrified while trying to give a baby CPR, seized me. “It’s not something we’ve discussed yet. We’ve only known each other a month or so. It’s too soon for that.”

“No it isn’t,” Sarah interjected. “You should know where he stands on wanting a family. You have to know if his wants and yours align now before you…”

“Was it even mine?”
Adam’s words from his confrontation with his ex ghosted through, smothering out their verbal debate.
“I’m glad you went to that butcher,”
he had said.

His voice had been pained, filled with hurt when he’d said it.

My heart sank; the pending loss of losing Adam overwhelmed me like a thousand knives to the heart, draining the last fragments of my soul through its gaping wound.

He’d want children.

Of course he would.

A son to run around the house in a cowboy hat and play gun, trying to be just like his daddy. Or a daughter—a little girl with ringlets in her hair that would light his face in a magical way no woman ever could.

“…feeling that life inside you… baby kicking…”

Skipping pictures, like fragments of a torn movie, showed me in dizzying fast forward exactly how his life should be.

The woman he smiled for, the woman he embraced in his arms and kissed at the end of the day wasn’t me.

The smiling children running through the grass to tackle hug their father weren’t mine. They wouldn’t be. Couldn’t be.

The babbling gush of happy laughter erupting around them were sounds I’d never hear. They were meant for someone else to cherish.

Someone else to covet.

He would leave me.

Of course he would.

It may not be today or tomorrow even, but eventually he would.

It would be ugly and brutal and lethal to my heart.

The chest pains were agonizing.

I’d committed myself, my future, to be barren. I wasn’t enough. I couldn’t be enough for him. How could I ever be enough? Why would any man want that?

“…didn’t mean to upset you. Erin? Honey? It’s okay. It’s your choice.”

The streak of black hair came into clearer focus.

Jen.

My pager chimed, vibrating my pocket for good measure. I remembered to breathe.

I smeared away the traitorous tear and focused on the pager. “I have to go.”

“Are you okay?”

Jen again.

I nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s been…,” I took a deep, steadying breath, “it’s been an emotional day. I’ll see you later?”

I crammed my uneaten sandwich and the rest of my lunch back into my bag, tossing it in the trash.

White walls. Tiled floors. Smells of pungent fluids. I was losing my mind.

I wiped my face again, swapping heartache for self-assuredness.

I didn’t need the staff asking me questions or doubting my leadership.

Doctors were made of tougher stuff than that. It didn’t take long before I’d be put to the test again.

I PULLED THE
curtain behind me, cutting off the prying eyes of other patients. “Start chest compressions.”

The patient we had in room nine, a twenty-seven-year-old female who’d been in and out of consciousness with a BP and pulse that had been steadily skyrocketing, had just coded.

Sherry had her knee on the bed, pressing with all her might. This was the moment it all came to a head; my own pulse racing with every passing minute.

We didn’t have time to wait for the results from the lab; this girl was slipping through our fingers rapidly and precious seconds counted. I called out all the necessary protocols I knew of to treat her. I was grateful I took the time to question her two friends who were out in the waiting room. They confirmed my initial diagnosis. Still, nothing made you feel as vulnerable as when you were playing God.

Watching her body jolt when we shocked her, giving her the last bits of hope we could offer before surrendering to the hands of fate, made me hold my own breath.

“Check for pulse,” I instructed, remembering that I was also responsible to pass the torch of knowledge along to the two residents assisting me. Good, bad, or otherwise, it was not only my job to cheat Death, but to teach others how to do it, too.

Relief washed over me hearing we established a rhythm, becoming almost euphoric in its wake. There was no other high quite like this; it’s the kind you want to celebrate with cake and fireworks and a huge-ass banner that announces loudly, “Fuck you, Death.”

Sherry gave me a fist pump, followed by a quick celebratory hip-check. “This was a caffeine OD?”

I nodded. “No more Jager-bombs for her. The future bride out in the waiting room almost had to find another bridesmaid.”

Twenty minutes later, I was reviewing party-girl’s latest ECG when one of our nurses announced we had multiple patients en route. “Three males with multiple gunshot wounds. ETA is ten minutes.”

So much for enjoying a victory.

“Doctor Novak?”

I spun, seeing one of our pediatric on-calls hailing me. I wondered if he was looking for my boss Sam since the two of them were best buddies. I’d never played golf, so I couldn’t understand their passion. “You need me, Doctor Weinstein?”

He gave me a quick chin nod. “Hang on. I want to talk to you.”

I braced, ignoring the wrinkle that creased his receding hairline, preparing to be chewed out for
something
. It was status quo around here; there was always someone your senior lurking behind a curtain to correct you. My mind quickly sifted through my caseload while I waited for his verbal berating on how he isn’t happy.

His partial smile was disarming.

“I just wanted to say you did a good job with the ped patient, Micah Brown. Doctor Tomic said your keen eye saved us precious time getting the patient into the O.R.”

His verbal pat on the back felt amazing. “Thank you, sir.”

“You ever consider taking a shot at pediatric trauma full-time? You’re really great with kids.”

Me? Kids? Hell no
. Had the boy been located another ten miles in the opposite direction, he would have been treated by a dedicated ped trauma team at Children’s. “I’m actually going for my tox fellow.”

“Tox?” he echoed, surprised. “I heard that. Why? No, wait. Not for me to judge. Explains how you knew about the drug interactions.” He checked his pager. “Probably saved his life.”

“We did. He coded on arrival.”

His smile was thoughtful. “Then you saved his life twice. Would be a shame to lose someone of your caliber to another department. But if the lab is where you would be happier, then I wish you luck. Some doctors just aren’t cut out for emergency med.”

His underhanded comment stung. “I love working here. I’ve made the cut for five years now.”

Doctor Weinstein shrugged. “Then why leave? This is where you make a difference, not down in the basement in a lab.” His name echoed over the central paging system. “I hope you reconsider, Doctor.”

He left me holding my future with a pat on the shoulder and a wry grin.

My pager was going crazy. I rushed down the hallway to ready for my next patient.

We all stood in teams, getting briefed, planning our responses to the preliminary assessments given by the ambulance crews. One patient was already non-responsive; the paramedics were conducting CPR en route, although we were probably looking at a DOA.

As soon as my patient arrived, male, nineteen years old, we sprung into action, all of us knowing what role we played in this young man’s survival. The EMTs briefed us as we transferred him.

I brushed his shoulder, trying to calm him down so we could do our jobs. “Jamal, can you hear me? My name is Doctor Novak and you’re at University Hospital. I need you to hold still, all right? We’re going to take good care of you.”

My surgical resident, Nate Cooperman, helped roll Jamal to his side. “No exit wound,” Nate announced.

I slid my hand up Jamal’s back. “It’s in the midline. I can feel it. Can we get a chest tube?”

I was doing my job as the team leader, keeping everyone calm and on task when our patient grabbed my shirt, pulling with more strength than I thought he would have considering his present state with two bullet holes in his body.